Lifetimes, A Memoir
by starlightarcher
Summary: Is insane love a defense or a cause? Perhaps both? The journey of one Bellatrix Lestrange nee Black, told in her own way.
1. The Beginning: My First Life

**A/N:** _This is an un-beta'd piece. After a series of attempts to find a beta, I'm still coming up with nill. If you (or someone you know) would be interested, please contact me. I'm keen to always put my best work forward, and that generally means a few re-reads._

**Summary:** Bellatrix is a woman with no remorse, no sanity, but also no regrets. This is a short recap of her journey, in her own telling.

**Disclaimer:** JK Rowling is brilliant and owns all of this! I only wish I had half her talent!

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**Lifetimes - A Memoir **

What shall I say, in moments such as these? That I worshiped a man until that love drove me beyond the edges of insanity? That I espoused a cause with devotion that went beyond reason and sense? That in my eyes fanaticism is a virtue rather than an evil? I could say all these things, and say them with conviction. They have been the cardinal truths of my world for what seems like lifetimes. And I have lived so very many- lifetimes that is. They say your life flashes before your eyes when you die, but then I have lived more lives than most. I wonder which one I'll see.

_The Beginning: My First Life_

Royalty doesn't exist in our world, the true world, the correct world. But if it did, I would have been born a princess. Shame really, I would have worn a title well I think. I was born to one of the most ancient and glorious houses in our world- the world of magic. I keep saying "our world" but really I shouldn't. That gives those filthy animals more power than they ever deserved. For countless generations my ancestors had to bear the taunts and tortures of creatures not blessed with magic. They fear us because we're powerful. They're right to do so. We, magic workers, have power beyond anything they can comprehend. They're jealous, and if I had the misfortune to be like them, I'd be jealous too. Right before I offed myself for being something so disgusting.

My house- the Blacks- are an ancient line, descended from a time when witches like me were burned alive for their gifts. They say the world has moved on, but atrocities like that aren't forgiven. At least, not by me they're not. Actually for a long time I didn't even know what a muggle was- let alone a mudblood. Those were whispered words, slurs not to be used in polite company, and princess that I was, certainly not something for my delicate unsoiled ears. It wasn't until my school days loomed close that I was finally told about the great injustices done to us, and the severe necessity of remaining pure. As if I could do anything else. I was a princess by Merlin, and princesses don't sully themselves by mixing with filth!

I could lie and say I only had one sister. Lying's phenomenally easy, despite what people say. You just don't have to care. But a moment like this deserves the truth, agonizing as it is. I had two younger sisters. A house full of princesses as father would occasionally remark when he was in his cups enough to do anything beyond glare. I have these hazy memories from my childhood; of three little girls being well- little girls. Of footraces up and down long corridors, and re-enacting the glory of our ancestors. Of being told off by one or both parents for behaving like savages, rather than the diaphanous princesses we were meant to become.

At times I can remember wondering if our parents loved us. Of course that was before my eyes were opened to the frailty of such things. Ah the joys of turning seven. Honestly I didn't need love- scoff as you please but it's true. Whenever I had one of those shameful moments of weakness, I would return to my pride- the safe haven of all purebloods. Pride in my lineage, pride in my status, pride in my purity, pride in my brilliance. Who was I to need the approval of any other creature, when I was born into such greatness? Feel free to scorn all you wish, but let no one ever doubt the level of my skill. By the time my hands actually touched a wand I'd been thoroughly inundated with tales of my ancestral glory. There was never a doubt in anyone's mind that I would do astounding things. When one came from ancestors such as mine there could be no questioning my potential. I've wondered if those days of my childhood- that lifetime long dead- were as blissful and halcyon as people so often romanticize. I still can't decide, unfortunately.

I wouldn't say that my childhood ended when I left for school. I was still very much a child when I entered the venerated halls of Hogwarts, but a part of that lifetime was gone. I… I'm not sure if that saddened me, even now I'm still not certain. Perhaps it was due to all the opening vistas. Finally I would have a chance to delve into my potential. I never had a moment's doubt what house I would belong to. Slytherin was as an ancient and lauded a house as my own. And frankly all the others were simply beneath me. Ravenclaws were too bookish to make their knowledge serve them. Hufflepuffs were nothing more than weaklings practically begging for someone to command them. And in my eyes Gryfindors were nothing short of savage barbarians. I would have thrown myself from the astronomy tower if I'd had to endure the shame of being sorted into any one of those houses. Thankfully there wasn't a need for drastic measures. The hat barely touched my head when it reaffirmed my place in the elite world of purebloods.

I won't bore you with anecdotes of my school years. They were what they were- a chance to develop my power. I knew I could fell mountains with barely a thought, and I delighted in proving it. I relished it all- both the power to create and the power to annihilate. Yes, the others feared me- they were right to. I liked it when they shrank from me. It meant I was someone powerful, someone worthy of their fear. Their fear, that power, it was practically a drug. Heady like wine, potent like firewhiskey, and lethal like dragon fire!

Most importantly it was there I heard the first whispers of him. The one who was to become the center my universe. My housemates spoke of him, usually in hushed worshipful tones. He was starting a movement. He would be the one to lead us from the shadowed secret world we'd been forced into. This man, this titan of revolution- I shivered with delight whenever anyone spoke of him. And he had once walked these very halls. He had once been a Slytherin- they said he was descended from the old serpent himself. That fact sent delicate ripples right down to my center. I remember gasping and thinking him to be practically a god!

I remember having an epiphany. A pureblood daughter is an ornamental being at best. She's useful only to marry, and her only purpose is to produce pureblooded children. I knew my future held a marriage- I honestly didn't care to who provided his lineage was correct. Children would be required, despite my distaste for such mewling brats. And yet these things were my duty, and I was nothing if not wedded to the dogma of pureblooded duty. Yet this man, this Dark Lord- in him I could find a kind of freedom. Through his brilliance I could openly acknowledged as a witch. All would honor me and my power, as was my magical right. Through him my life could have more meaning than what went on between my legs. I'd never set eyes on him, but I knew I loved him already. If only for the chance he gave me.

I can't paint the moment for you like a picture- with exact details of where I stood, what I wore, what work my hands were at- all I can describe is the feeling of rightness, of fervor that swept through me. My life, my world- everything that was me changed in that moment. I knew then I would seek him out, that I would vow myself to his service. That his whim would be my law, and that my heart would beat only for him. And that the moments separating that day and this would be little more than preparation; which is exactly what happened. My days at school passed as though in some sort of trance state. I slept, ate, studied- all as a student should, but my mind was constantly far away…my thoughts with him and the work that awaited me.


	2. The Ecstasy: My Truest Life

**Disclaimer:** Sorry, I'm no JK, but maybe I could play her on telly some day?

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The Ecstasy: My Truest Life

Duty is done because it must be. I married, as was proper. I knew my intended as well as I cared to- which is to say not at all. It won't shock anyone when I confess that I didn't love him. How could I when my heart beat for another? But it was necessary if purebloods were to truly rule. It was my duty, so I did it. Though opulent it was perfunctory, and I hardly lie when I say the groom didn't appear enthusiastic either. Ponce. He should've been overjoyed at the prospect of wedding one of the Black princesses. I barely spared him a thought. Actually I barely spared the entire ordeal any thought. It was all done at my mother's instructions. I only had to appear on the day in question and repeated words when spoken to. It was all boring, necessary duty. I spent the day dreaming of meeting him for the first time. He already had a gathering of followers. Death Eaters they were called, a more perfect name I couldn't imagine. They were powerful, feared, ruthless, and merciless. They had power and I wanted it!

I remember the day my dream finally came true. The only good thing my husband ever did for me. The Death Eaters, like so many traditions in our world were male-centric. Stupid fools who believed women didn't possess the nerve to maim and kill like they could. Many were my old schoolmates, and they should have known better. I was inducted into my master's presence, and it felt like I'd approached something holy. A dark god of chaos, destruction and rage. I bowed my head, to hide my delighted trembling.

I felt his eyes travel the length and breadth of me. I felt him peer into my mind, into my soul. If he desired it, I would have thrown myself at his feet, but I was still a Black (in my heart of hearts) and we don't publicly supplicate until necessary.

"Madam Lestrange," he whispered his acknowledgement of me.

"My Lord," I replied.

"You have wished to meet me for some time."

"I have wished to vow myself to your service for some time, my lord," I dared to correct him. I wanted everyone to know- most importantly him. "For your cause my lord, I would do any and all you command."

He was silent a very long time, and I knew he listened to the truth of my words. My voice was controlled, as a pureblood is always in control, but my heart quaked with fervor.

"Never have I seen one so committed," he spoke to us all. "Join us Madam Lestrange, no doubt there is much you can do for me."

"As you wish my Lord," I whispered.

So began the best years I ever lived. The Dark Lord took me under his wing. I learned how to maim, how to control, how to torture, how to extract truth through pain, how to decimate an enemy with the sheer force of my will. I had very little compassion for anyone upon joining his ranks, and he nurtured that strength of independence. I needed no one but him; I wanted no one but him. The others were jealous of me, jealous of his attention to me. They feared me almost as much as they feared him. He was a god of destruction and I was his queen. My life was nothing short of sublime.

Well, mostly sublime. For as much as I loved him, I knew he bore none for me. I may have been his most trusted and faithful lieutenant, but I also knew him to be a devout adherent of the Slytherin saying, "trust no one." He needed me because I was powerful, and I needed him because he was the reason I breathed. All these things I knew and all of them sustained me. I knew it was weakness on my part to wish that he might desire me, and I always fought against it- weakness, not my desire for him. Perhaps that sounds contradictory, but it was clear enough to us and that's really all that matters.

I knew whenever he rebuked me it was because he knew I could do better. I could be faster, could be colder, and could be stronger and even more invulnerable. He trained us, his Death Eaters, to be stone cold killers, and I devoted myself to becoming what he desired. He knew my penchant for pain, and taught me how to draw out every last second of glorious agony in a victim before death or madness took them. It's likely to repulse you, but torture is an art, and the Dark Lord was a master. True he preferred to kill, whereas I enjoyed their pain. When it came to those lessons I was without compare. Call it a boast, but every word is truth.

Those years- in the grand total of my life- they were so very short, yet they were the time when I was truly alive! The Dark Lord at his work, and I at his side, the only term I can think to use is glorious. Each moment to me was priceless, and personal. Something I used to carry me through the long dark agony that was to come. Of course at the time I thought of nothing by my lord's indisputable victory. He was so powerful, his goal so right- how could it fail in any way?

Like all truly worthy tales, where ecstasy must be counter-balanced by agony, I thought our days together would never end. Yet they were ripped from my hands in a single moment. Merely the speaking of a spell- one that had worked countless times before- was all that it took to bring everything we built to its ruin. Do you know what it's like to suffer a heart break? I do- I lived it. The mark, which bound his servants to him, let us each feel a portion of his pain. My beloved, my beloved- I fell to my knees, thinking I was dying. Something was wrong, something was very very wrong, and I couldn't think past the pain to know how to fix it.

By the time I regained my senses the wizarding world was in a riot of celebration. The Dark Lord had been vanquished, by a baby! That day I had my first taste of pure rage. A creature unable to control its own bowel movements had defeated the most powerful wizard of all time? I felt the edges of my sanity eroding. I killed the man who brought me the news. It wasn't true, and he deserved death for even thinking such falsehoods! But it was, my heart shattered like a mirror- my beloved was gone. The mark twitched occasionally, and I knew he was still alive- somehow.

He had spoken often of his quest to defeat mortality. I knew he'd achieved some measure of insurance against death. He had many enemies, and should I be killed, I was glad to know he was ensured against death's grasping hand. He still existed, thank Slytherin! But there was so much I didn't know. Where was he? How badly was he wounded? How to bring him back to me?

It's very difficult to plot when your sanity has shattered. I couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, couldn't think straight. The only thing I wanted was revenge. Pure, savage, brutal vengeance! By the time we discovered the child's name it was too late. Dumbledore had ensured his protection against anything we could work. I spent several nights raving about that, let me tell you. The few others that were still free knew to keep clear of me, for fear I would lash out in my fury.

In the end we caught who we could. The Longbottom's weren't my first choice, but they were members of the Order, and aurors to boot. At that point I didn't care who I harmed, I simply had to do something! While it's true I'm an artist with the Cruciatis, that night I more a blunt instrument. Witch that I am, I would've preferred to strangle them both with my bare hands! I needed to feel someone die, any one and every one- it didn't matter, just something to quell the rising mania. My husband held me back from outright killing them. Weakling. Sometimes I remember their screams, and it has a calming effect on me. They broke long before we could learn anything useful, but by that time I didn't care. I just wanted warm bodies to torture- in hindsight, not one of my smarter nights.

I was almost gleeful when the other Order members arrived. I figured I'd have more people to torture, but in the end we were overrun. My husband blamed our capture on me- of course he would. We didn't have a real trial. The other side was out for blood, just like I was. I never expected to be shown mercy. I certainly wouldn't have granted it if the situation had been reversed. I was a little surprised we weren't given the kiss immediately, but that's what happens when weaklings win. Oh I threw my taunts at them, my last bit of bile to spew before I was sent off to hell. Perhaps I was afraid to face the dementors, but at the time I was still running on hatred and fury.

I didn't cry, not even when the door of my cell slammed shut behind me. I was a Black, and the Dark Lord's best lieutenant. I wouldn't be broken by prison, by soul sucking monsters, not even by the loss of my beloved. I knew- I knew he would come back. I clung to that as I kept my heart beating while I waited.

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**A/N:** Thanks to all who've given this piece a look. Still hunting for a beta, and always interested in reviews and comments!


	3. The Agony: My Life in Hell

**Disclaimer:** Nope, still don't own any of this. Seriously though, wouldn't it be cool if she did write a Bella story someday?

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The Agony: My Life in Hell

I learned something very important in prison- I hate the sound of the ocean. The relentlessness of the waves, the silence followed by the crashing; the incessant roaring- they're meant to drive you blind, stupid, god-rotting mad. Everything about Azkaban is designed to drive you to that point. Between the noise and the dementors, most go stark raving insane in months, and I was there fifteen years. But Azkaban didn't break me, no I was already crazed when I entered that hell. Crazed with grief is much like true madness, and in that way I was shielded from the worst of what the guards could do. Even so, I was left vulnerable to the madness of my own grief.

Dementors at their core are parasites. They're the spawn of greed and decay combined. They strip you of everything you'd wish to keep. Happy memories, pleasant feelings, eventually even your magical aura is taken. Yet, my life had no true happiness- and that was my salvation. You see, Death Eaters long ago learned the trick to dealing with dementors. Unlike other wizards who fight them with patronus shields, we could move among these creatures- bend them to our will. How you ask? Simple, by having nothing they want. I had no happy memories to steal, no warm recollections of a better life awaiting me. When I entered Azkaban, I had only the mind-shattering misery of my beloved gone. The dementors didn't know what to do with me. It wasn't them who drove me to madness, it was my own fury that did that.

Don't misunderstand- I was hardly a broken woman, I had simply lost my grip on control. I have never been a patient woman, and fifteen years is a disturbing amount of time to be made to wait. For days I railed, shouted and cursed at anything and everything. But once my surge of anger had been spent the exhaustion followed. We'd been fighting a war after all! I had spent months in almost constant action. Yet when my beloved lived, no that's a falsehood- he was still alive, I wouldn't believe otherwise! While my beloved remained with us, all my energy was devoted to any of his wishes. For the first time since my epiphany I had no goal, no purpose. In truth that scared me almost as much as the Dark Lord's disappearance. I mostly slept that first year; there was nothing better to do. Unfortunately the day came when my body could take no more rest. My dreams were more torment than escape, seeing how they were tainted with the agony of my lord's disappearance. Even reliving old tortures brought me lessening comfort. That was the year the pacing began.

I paced my cell till I could walk it in my sleep. I knew how many steps it was around, how many steps long, how many steps wide, and how many steps corner-to-corner. I paced because my body had so much energy that I thought I'd fly into pieces if I didn't do _something_. Unfortunately pacing only distracts your feet, your mind has far too much time to work. I took to screaming again, if only to hear the sound of a human voice. Most times I mumbled little counting games, or whispered old lecture notes from my school days. Other times I would relive old conversations the Dark Lord and I had shared. This is probably where the account of my lost sanity began. It's as good an explanation as any other. No one cared to know the truth, and I wasn't about to enlighten them.

The strangest of times was when I would stop to ponder what might be happening to my husband. I didn't know where they'd stashed him, and I most days I didn't care. There was much I didn't care about by that point- still don't actually. But those odd moments of curiosity always threw me for a loop. I didn't know where such sentimentality came from, and it horrified me to think that I could be softening in Azkaban of all places. Merlin, the shame of it! And since you may well ask, no I don't remember seeing my cousin Sirius there. Grief has a way of narrowing your scope. I was too lost within myself to notice one blood traitor. He, just like my reviled sister, had shamed our house, and spat upon the family's good name with their antics. The Dark Lord had long ago charged me with destroying them should the opportunity ever present itself. Not that there was much prospect of that happening in prison, but I never forgot his words to me. Since then I've done quite a bit to remove such stains from the world. Didn't that feel good- let me tell you! Ah, but a get ahead of myself. So no, I knew that blood traitor was imprisoned, like me, but I never saw him. And may he count himself lucky for that!

I probably give the wrong impression when I only speak of dementor guards. True they are the mainstay, but of course wizards are there too. Not many and never for long, but someone has to see to our basic needs. Through the revolving carousel of faces news would trickle in. Even though I still shrieked and flailed at anyone who dared get too near, I did hear things. And what I did set my teeth gnashing with fury. The talk was of rebuilding, of peace. Never once did I hear of any attempt made to find our master. Those traitorous weak fools! They'd sworn themselves to his service, and yet made no effort to recover him! I discovered that fury tastes like molten metal in your mouth, and that hatred is a powerful stimulant. I wanted to murder my brethren. I certainly hoped the Dark Lord would when he returned. And he would return, of that I had supreme confidence.

So in the darkness of hell I plotted. I made lists in my head. Names and names of people I would punish, murder, blackmail, reward- when I was finally free that was. Just as I knew my beloved master would return, I was also fervent in the belief that he wouldn't leave me here. I was his most faithful servant. The reason I was even in this hell hole was due to my efforts to find him. I was absolutely certain he wouldn't abandon me, just as I had never abandoned him.

Eventually I learned that The-Boy-Who-Should-Be-Dead had emerged from his childhood ignorance. Harry Potter had gone to Hogwarts, and the world was holding its collective breath. They expected miraculous things from him. I think both factions did actually. My brother-in-law later confided that they were eager to see if he might one day step in to the Dark Lord's place. I don't think I could have followed him if that had happened. He could have been the one to lead the retribution against the muggles, but to me he would always be the reason my beloved was gone. I couldn't have forgotten such a thing.

As it was, our hopes were crushed when he immediately allied himself with Dumbledore. I didn't care; it gave me an excuse to hate him outright. He was at the top of my list, exactly where he belonged. My master had marked him for death eleven years prior, who was he to thwart that? I would see that child dead if it took my last breath to do it!

It's difficult to recall exactly when I noticed my mark darkening. I used to stare at it for hours- remembering better times. Over the years it had faded to a grey shape embossed on the bone white flesh of my arm. Yet, at the oddest times it would prickle and tingle in a way that recalled memories. It was a bit disorienting at first. You see, after so many years wearing the Dark Mark, my eyes stopped seeing it. My mind had long ago accepted it as part of me, and my gaze would slide past- accepting it as part of the general landscape of my body. But those moments when I felt the familiar sting, it seemed as though the lines moved once more. I crowed and wept on more than one occasion, I doubt the guards ever knew why. My master, my beloved, my god was returning, just as I'd fervently believed he would!

That night the mark burned hot and angry I screamed like a banshee. Not from the pain, never the pain. No, I was nothing but a seething mass of emotion that night. In hindsight it was for the better that my lord didn't come for me then. I was not his perfectly controlled queen any longer. Grief had shattered me, and loneliness had eroded what little control I ever did have. No, it was better the way it happened, but I didn't think so that night. I was at once rapturous that my beloved had returned to us, and enraged that I couldn't go to him.

Without a wand, I could no more apparate than a common muggle. My master, my god, he was among us once more, and I was not there to look upon his greatness! I know I hurt myself with all the thrashing that night; the histrionics only ceasing when exhaustion claimed me. I woke to find myself chained. Much as I was hated, they wanted me alive, stupid stupid fools. They should have known that so long as I lived the Dark Lord would come for me, and he did eventually.

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**A/N:** Thanks for reading, getting close to the end. Please please please review! We love reviews!


	4. The Waning: My Final Life

**A/N:** This one's a bit longer, but since there was more source material and ground to cover, it kinda happened that way.

**Disclaimer:** Ok you caught me, I totally own all this. *snort* Yeah, I couldn't say that with a straight face either.

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The Waning: My Final Life

The Dark Lord rarely does anything in haste. He was as sly as his serpent heritage, and as patient as one too. It was many months before I was free of that reviled cell. I remember having a moment's worth of sadness when I left. Much as I hated it, that cell had been my whole world, and had borne witness to much of me. I set it on fire as we left, just because I could.

I could wax eloquent about my reunion with my beloved Dark Lord, in fact I want to, but how do you adequately describe the bliss of being made whole again? Part of me withered when he was torn from me, and to see him once more- that was ecstasy beyond description. He crooned that only I and my husband were truly faithful, and I purred my delight. If tears weren't a pitiful weakness I would have wept for joy in his return. He praised the effort that landed me in prison so long ago; held me up as an example that the others had fallen short of. I swelled with pride at his words. Praise from the Dark Lord is a rare thing, and I basked in his words. I couldn't wait to prove myself to him once more. To show that I'd lost none of my skill during my time in hell. I was ready to be his right arm, his avenging harpy, the slayer of his enemies. This time it would be different. This time we would wring the last drop of blood from the weaklings, and I would personally dance on their corpses!

Shall I tell you a dangerous secret? I didn't really recognize my master any longer. True he was still there, beneath the snake-like face, but yet he also wasn't. Perhaps it's a kind of clarity that only the mad possess. Madness always recognizes itself in others, and my beloved clung to his sanity as tenuously as I did. Truly that frightened me worse than anything ever had. Without a doubt he was the Dark Lord, but he was also a madman. I don't know when that realization came, but I remember it being a heart-rending agony.

My beloved, he was gone- well not all of him was gone. In fact much of whom he was remained, but it had been poisoned by rage and paranoia. I couldn't blame him, not even a jot. I too had been transformed into a seething creature of vengeance and madness. Yet my hysteria had been clamed by returning to my beloved. My master? I couldn't say what would fully return him to me, I didn't know if it was possible. I knew such thoughts were more than dangerous to hold, and I thanked my ancestors I was as proficient at Occlemency as I was torture.

I remember standing in my sister's home, and coming to the serious conclusion. Even if _my_ beloved was gone, I would still follow this man. Even if only out of devotion to whom he had been. Out of loyalty to what had been between us and what could still be. And who was to say, perhaps once Potter was dead, my lord might return to himself and to me. Even if I had to join him in utter-madness, I knew I would remain at his side. I had loved him nearly my whole life, I would not falter now or ever.

I will never understand why my lord didn't entrust the prophecy retrieval to me, rather than my prig-headed brother-in-law. Lucious was always better at buying things than anything else. I feared that perhaps my lord thought my skills atrophied due to my long incarceration. I was also wary; it had been months with these craven worms whispering in his ear. Who knows what things they'd said to regain his favor. I knew my beloved too clever to fall for simple flattery, but there were a few who truly worried me- Snape and Lucious chief among them. Both free all these years, leading comfortable lives while some of us had suffered horrors for our unflinching loyalty. I hated them for it, and hated how they took my lord's eyes away from me.

Lucious was an utter fool, my sister's feelings be damned! He tried to reason with children, tried to deal with them as though they were things to be respected! If I'd been left to it, all of them would have felt the bite of my wand and that would've been the end of it. I don't care if Potter was able to throw off the Imperius; once you soften'em up with a bit of pain everyone becomes compliant. That's how a master works!

That night held many things for me. I finally got to put down that mongrel of a cousin, who sullied the Black name so. That night also held the shock of Potter's attempt at an Unforgivable. Perhaps loss _can_ break anyone. I would've figured The-Boy-Who-Needed-To-Die too pure for something so vengeful, but just the same I felt the sting of his curse. It knocked me breathless for a second, but for all his anger it was weak- he was weak.

Like I said, I'm an artist when it comes to pain. You've got to want your victim to suffer, no that's quite right. Potter was in pain that night, and he wanted to punish me- wanted me to feel a measure of his pain. But when I say you've got to mean it, I mean you have to delight in their agony. It's a fair assessment to call me a sadist, which is why I'm so good. A victim's screams- to me they're like a kind of music, and Potter, for all his self-righteous anger, would never understand that kind of need. I remember later marveling that that chit was the one to survive my lord's wrath. He most surely would've died that night, if the bane of our life Dumbledore hadn't arrived. As I watched the two of them duel, it became clear how Potter had managed to survive thus far. Anyone could seem glorious when backed by such a powerful wizard. Look at Pettigrew.

That night my lord punished me. Well, that is to say he took his wrath out on someone and since I was the only Death Eater to escape, I was it. Part of me was glad for the pain, and part of me hated it. Of course, I was spared the indignity of going back to Azkaban, so my lord's torture was easily born compared to the misery that would have been. Being separated from him was true torture, and I would never fail him again!

Did I mention that I hated Severus? Good, I thought I had. I still do, and I'm actually rather glad he's dead. He took the one thing that mattered most to me, my place at my beloved's side! I never trusted him, even before. Most people, even most Death Eaters, are remarkably simple to comprehend. Everyone wants something, and it doesn't take a Legilimans to figure out what. But Snape, he was a blank, and those are the ones who make me the most suspicious.

I wouldn't say I'm sad to not have had any children. It's not like life held many opportunities- what with prison and everything. Yet even if I hadn't spent all that time incarcerated, I just can't picture myself having any. True I could have done the natural thing and had them raised by nannies, but picturing my body swollen with child and going through the indignity of delivery- those images look more bizarre than a congenial dementor. So, I took what residual pride I could when my nephew was inducted into our ranks. It seemed a shocking breach of loyalty when I realized Narcissa wasn't delighted by the prospect.

That she ran to Snape for help was worse than a slap to the face! That worm of a man was her best hope? Could no one else see that every word from his mouth was some form of a lie? Perhaps it was traitorous of me to think so, but I did worry that perhaps he had even deceived my beloved somehow. Yet I was lost as to how that could be possible. When she begged him for an Unbreakable Vow of protection I was almost offended on Draco's behalf. I sniffed at my sister's weakness. If I'd had children, they would've been offered into my beloved's service the moment they drew breath.

Perhaps we should've known then that he'd be his father's son. Apparently the boy had inherited the Malfoy weakness along with its grey eyes! Oh yes, I say he deserved every bit of what the Dark Lord gave him! He failed at the task, and had allowed another to do the deed. And Snape no less! Now he grew in our master's eyes while I and my relations looked even weaker. I took it upon myself to make sure our master's lesson was driven home a bit further.

The next mark against us was when the spawn of that slattern who called herself kin married a lycanthrope! The shame of it left me physically sick. Narcissa and I hadn't looked upon our sister since we discovered her unnatural taste in men. Andromeda shamed the family by marrying the mudblood, shamed herself, and as far as I was concerned, had died that day. But to find out that her womb-spawn had done one worse and coupled with a werewolf, and had gotten herself in whelp! Worse yet, I had to hear the news from Fennir, which somehow added greater insult on top of the shame. True the Dark Lord used him, but he was little better than a feral beast, and I couldn't wait for the day one of us was given leave to put him down like the mad dog he was.

We were told the news in the Dark Lord's presence, and I wanted to die of mortification. Well, first I wanted a relative or two to murder, and then I wanted to die. How could we possibly hope to recover our good name when these people did everything in their power to undermine us? I rushed from the room to purge my stomach, and when I returned the Dark Lord seemed almost pleased with my reaction. I vowed on my magic that I would correct this heinous blight against wizard-kind. And I did my ultimate best shortly thereafter. Unfortunately I was forced to wait many months to keep my vow, ah but again I skip ahead. I was speaking of then, not now.

My beloved was often gone those last months. 'Away' he would always reply when any dared to ask. He looked as though he was seeking something. But I had learned long ago to never press him for more than he wished to give. All would be revealed in time, especially to his most loyal and best lieutenant. Until that time I did as I always had done- I did his work and kept his secrets. That is until the day I learned they weren't so secret anymore.

I know you're going to ask about that night at the Manor. Everyone wants to know about that night, it practically screams from their expressions. What am I meant to say that's not already known? Potter's mudblood screamed like a songbird, which is fairly typical. It's true I was terrified when I saw the sword, and I didn't exaggerate when I told the others of our incredible peril. We already had so many marks against us; this could not be allowed to come to the Dark Lord's attention.

Besides, I was hardly incapable. In fact I was one of the most feared and respected people in the world! I could deal with a simple vermin problem. A shame that that moment's fear kept me from really enjoying her torture. But the need for quick action was too great, and well you know what followed. My beloved was as furious as predicted. And for the first time in my life, I ran. I didn't care who behind me died, I simply had to escape.

I fled deep into the Manor, seeking some outlet. But without my wand I felt naked and wretched. True I could do wandless magic, but it was weak by comparison. I vaguely remember destroying things with my bare hands, as if I were no better than a muggle. I hated myself that night, one of the first times that ever happened. It seemed there could be no way to recover after this greatest failing yet. It was with a great sigh that I suddenly wished for an end. My beloved would never look on ever again, and he would be right not to. I had failed him, at every turn of the path.

"So dark are your thoughts, Madame Lestrange," a serpentine voice spoke to me.

"No darker than the truth, my Lord," I replied. I will confess that I hoped he came to kill me.

"How would you redeem yourself?" he asked, his tone giving no clue to his thoughts.

"In any way my lord desires."

"Any way?" he asked. "Would you kill yourself if I bade?"

"Without question," I wondered if this was the gentle prelude to a quick end or a protracted torture.

"Would you sacrifice your sister, your nephew?" Again he prodded.

"Without hesitation or mercy," my voice was dead.

"Would you live without your wand?" he twisted the proverbial knife deeper.

"If that pleases you, my Lord," I answered.

There was a long silence, one that I couldn't fathom.

"You wish to die." It wasn't a question, and surprisingly it wasn't an accusation either.

"I wish to serve you, to achieve your vision for this world, to reclaim your favor, but with so many failures set against me, I cannot see it happening. And I would rather die than live without your favor my lord," I was breathless, my mind struggling to control the words I was practically raving by that point.

He gave me a very long look, and I know he sought entrance to my mind. For less than half a second I considered fighting the intrusion, but I knew he was more powerful than me. And besides, I was a dead woman already, what did it matter any longer? I could feel him moving through my memories, my thoughts, my desires. He knew of the vows I'd made to myself those very long years past. He knew of my adoration, my jealousy and my shame. He saw all of it, in a writhing mass of color and emotion. Perhaps some of it surprised him, though if it did he never showed it.

"Never have I seen one so committed," he spoke very quietly.

Perhaps he spoke to himself, perhaps to me. I couldn't know, so I remained silent.

"Your devotion redeems you, Madame," he spoke at length before turning sharply and leaving.

I felt my eyes widen. The Dark Lord was not a merciful man, but that night he showed a kind of mercy to me. He left me with my life, but with no wand and no honor. We were now caged mongrels, living at his pleasure. At any moment he could execute us, as examples of how failure is rewarded. But he left me alive that night, and with a kind of hope that one day I might reclaim my glory.


	5. The Eternity: My Epitaph

**Disclaimer:** Fifth verse, same as the first!

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The Eternity: My Epitaph

How can it be possible for one night to seem like an entire lifetime? Twelve hours is a disturbingly short amount of time, and yet those twelve hours- they seem to hang suspended and never ending, like a frozen muggle picture. When they come to write about that night, no doubt there is much that will be left unknown, for it seems that those of us who witnessed all will be dead. They were just a few brief hours, but they were also as long as any of my lifetimes.

My family and I were still prisoners in our home, living with the shame of our lord's displeasure. When we learned of the Gringott's raid and subsequent escape his fury was like nothing that I'd ever seen. Yet for all that, it was the unbridled fear I saw in his scarlet eyes that disturbed me most. My beloved had never been afraid, not ever- yet something had horrified him and it felt as though the ground beneath me gave an almighty lurch. He was gone in an instant, and those of us remaining were left to shoot each other silent questioning glances. So many of them looked at me, as if I knew our master's every secret- I can't begin to tell you what that did for my wounded ego. Unfortunately I knew no more than they and was barely able to clamp down my own fear.

There are moments that are singular in this world. The people who witness them call it "history in the making." Cliché as it is, they're right; odd how you can feel the approach of such moments, like the coming of a storm. Your skin prickles with foreboding and you shiver for no reason other than that intangible knowledge that something momentous is almost upon you. Those final hours before the battle were just that.

There was only one time in my life where I ever dared to defy my beloved. But it was that night. I knew that a desperate battle was within striking distance, and while the Dark Lord had not forbidden me a wand, he had not expressly granted me one either. Yet I would not walk into battle unarmed. If you must know I took one from the Malfoy crypts. The dead could sleep just as eternally without theirs. Perhaps it was defiance, but I was determined to guard my beloved's flank, and I could not do that weaponless.

When the moment came, we were told only that we were bound for Hogwarts. It had a strange symbiosis. If there is an axis around which our lives pivot- our time at school is it. Alliances and rivalries are forged there. Its halls become our home in ways our manors never could. And the place had already born witness to so many of this war's maneuvers already. It felt right- in a strange synergetic way. Returning not home exactly, but as close to a home as one like me would ever have.

The newly erected wards still glimmered in the dark, they were ready to battle, which was perfect for so was I. I knew blood would flow that night, and that many of my brethren would give no quarter. No storm shook the sky, but still the world trembled, preparing to witness all that each side would do to the other.

Shall I lay all of the night out for you, beat for beat- moment by moment? There is much I can't recall. The Dark Lord thought they would submit; that their fear of him would be enough incentive for them to lay down arms and turn over their savior. I am my lord's most faithful of followers, but I never held any delusions that the Phoenix followers would ever do that. At that point I knew they and I had something in common. We, every one of us who drew breath on that battlefield, were desperate. The war had barely begun and already we were desperate for its end. I wanted the boy dead and my beloved returned to me. I wanted our world to make sense, as it had that long lifetime ago.

The battle was desperate. Merlin, that phrase sounds nearly clinical. How can battle ever be adequately described? There's really only one word that comes close- chaos; pure unadulterated chaos. Light and heat and fear and movement and death; everywhere death, and a good portion of it from my hand too. It's in poor taste to say that I loved it, but I did. It's who I am. I am a woman of violence, and I lived my life by the power of destruction. This battle, it was a glorious work of rage and annihilation. We swept in like the hateful sea, consuming all we touched. I was at my beloved Dark Lord's side, and when he turned his gaze to me, I could see I was once again his dark queen. I confess, in that moment my life was complete.

The Dark Lord wanted to preserve as much magical blood as possible. Not the way I would have done things, but I can't say it wasn't a sound plan. Of course if it were left to me, I would have systematically killed them all. If they'd taken up arms against us, who was to say they wouldn't again? But my lord showed a moment of mercy, why he did I shall never understand. But who am I to question a man as great as he? When he called to the boy I knew he would come. His conscious would grant him less mercy than we would, and so many had died to defend him. It was a divinely clever plan, but of course this was why I worshiped him.

When Potter stepped into that clearing it felt as though the entire world held its breath. We had spent twenty-eight years and two wars building to that exact moment, and its importance was lost on no one. Perhaps it's crude to say I was orgasmic with glee when my beloved spoke his curse and Potter dropped like a broken doll, but I absolutely was. It was short lived though, for we all realized that our lord had fallen as well, and no one knew what to do.

I rushed to his side, horrified that he might be dead. The thought sent icy fingers clenching round my heart. It felt like hours before he stirred, but no doubt it was only a heartbeat or so. I must confess it was the first time I ever saw a peaceful expression grace his features. Though I was terrified he had died, I couldn't help but be moved. Ever since his return 'peaceful' would've been the very last word used to describe him. So to see it, was a small miracle. He shuddered and gasped like a dying fish as he regained consciousness. My whole attention had been on him that I had yet to spare Potter's corpse a moment's thought. What did I honestly care about The-Boy-I-Hated? My beloved needed me, though he was loathed to show any weakness. When my sister announced he was dead, I think I breathed easily for the first time in nearly seventeen years. He was finally dead, we had won!

Victory should never taste like ash. We had won! We had won! And that hell spawn Potter leapt us as though returned from the grave, and rallied his defeated army. Once again I felt the molten metal taste of pure rage on the back of my tongue. We fought, two armies, across the grounds and into the very school itself. I wanted to rip the building apart, stone from stone, down to its very foundations. My wand flashed like lightning and so very many died at my hand. When the Weasley matriarch approached, I cackled like the quintessential witch, my blood quickened as I prepared to dance again!

We dueled like a pair of dervishes- twirling and spinning with a deadly recklessness. The ground beneath us grew hot and cracked from the heat of our hatred. Oh yes, I hated that woman. Hated her for who she was, what she believed, what she had done. I hated her and her entire miserable brood of traitorous spawn. She hated me because I was a murderess, who had relieved the world of yet one more Weasley. Apparently motherhood breeds its own measure of insanity. We both dueled to kill, but I doubt she'd ever managed such a thing before. Righteous fury lit her eyes, and maternal hatred spewed from her wand. It was like a dance amid fire, chaotic and glorious. I was going to dance on her corpse.

I can't remember exactly how it happened. I was laughing, goading her into blind rage, when something struck me in the chest. It felt like an iron punch to the heart. I remember sucking in a deep breath through my teeth, thinking it would bruise horribly. Yet, as I looked back at her, I noticed the triumphant gleam in her eye.

'Odd expression,' I thought.

Then there was an enormous roar, like that of a dragon. I remember seeing the great spiral of existence begin to collapse and the sensation of floating took over. It wasn't till I heard the scream of my beloved that I realized something irreversibly fatal had happened. I floated, seeing my lifetimes flash behind my eyes. And though the retelling of them has been brief, I have relived them all. I am not ashamed of anything I have done. In all of the lives I have lived, I remained true to myself, and my beloved. He knows my devotion, and that what comforts me in this my very last moment.

That final moment- it hangs suspended in time. Twirling slowly, neither rising nor descending, like a languid bird, simply riding the current between above and below. It's hard to recognize that you're dying. It happens so quickly, yet my mind sees it as one moment never ending. The world has begun to break apart, splitting at the seams, into ribbons of light colored in shades I've never seen. Everything is dissolving, and I think so am I. This moment, this moment of disconnection, I should be furious and heartbroken, but really I can't muster much in the way of emotion. I'm probably still in shock. I wonder what expression my face is wearing. We were so close, so very very close. Perhaps my actions tonight will purge my failures in my beloved's eyes. I desperately hope he's safe. If I am truly dying then I leave his flank undefended. But the Dark Lord is a wizard without compare, and he may yet survive to rise again. Yes, this hope I clutch to my heart as pieces of me begin to disappear. I don't know where I'm bound, but this last thing I do know. I am Bellatrix Lestrange, daughter of the ancient and most noble house of Black. I have worshipped a man and willingly followed him to realms where sanity is a thing unknown. He is my beloved, my god, my everything. And as these are my final seconds, I will speak words I have never uttered before,

"I love you Lord Voldemort, my lord, my prince, my god. Farewell."

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**A/N:** Sorry this one took longer- kinda a strange week, and inspiration was a bit thin on the ground. But yes, last chapter. This was my first go at writing Bellatrix, and I wasn't sure where she would lead me. This story may get re-written and fleshed out a bit more if she decides to speak to me again. Guess we'll both see.

Thanks to everyone who took a look, and gave a non-romance story a chance! Please please review. We love reviews, yes we do!


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